Born Tired
“It's been a long night
Long life, long time fighting
Let out a long sigh
Alright, why am I trying?
Cause look at how far you have come
And look at all that you have going
Look at who you have become
Baby, you gotta keep going”
-“Born Tired” by Jhené Aiko
One day, during my junior year of high school, I was transitioning from one class to another, resting my pile of textbooks on my desk when I felt something strange, a compression in my chest that felt like someone was squeezing my insides as I squeezed the sides of my desk. It was the first time I experienced that, and I (naively driven by my favorite fantasy novels and television shows) imagined I was displaying prescience of some future auspicious event and forgot all about the sensation. You might say this was an optimistic approach of dealing with an unknown physical symptom, however, looking back I think it was gullible especially when the premonition I believed I had of a future when I would only be happy and have everything I wanted never happened because the idea of perfection is delusional. My adolescence only seemed to get gloomier with ideations of worthlessness plaguing my every thought, thoughts that weighed so heavy they seemed to carry their own mass of energy. I couldn’t kick my shyness or insecurities and my desire to be invisible while traversing the old hallways of my high school saved me from rejection—that was the perk of being a wallflower. One of my favorite lines in literature comes from the young adult novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky: We accept the love we think we deserve; that couldn’t be truer for me. It’s not that I was in bad relationships with abusive partners but that I avoided relationships altogether because I didn’t like myself and felt I didn’t deserve someone else’s love. My decisions only made my sadness worse and I felt a heavy sense of loneliness even among my best friends. Years later, after a period of self-reflection and hearing others talk, I recognized that what was constricting my chest had a name: Anxiety; an accumulation of fears attached to my introverted ways like a root. And it didn’t start in high school.
In 6th grade a trio of girls were selected, myself included, by our teacher to work with our school psychologist, a nice older white lady with perfect posture named Mrs. Shannon, to support and encourage one of the shyest girls in our class who struggled to make friends. We would gather in Mrs. Shannon’s tiny office, which also doubled as the nurse’s office whenever that time of year came up for vision and physical examinations, the four of us seated around a round wooden table while the psychologist would sit in her metal chair talking to us and giving us activities. I don’t remember every session, the countless conversations, however, I remember one occasion where we were seated around the table and Mrs. Shannon gave us paper and crayons, asking us to draw while she asked us questions. I don’t remember what I drew, it could’ve been stick figures really, having no special talent for drawing, but while I was distracted with my crayons, selecting the best colors for my chicken scratch, she asked me if I wouldn’t like having friends over at my house, perhaps to sleep over?
“No,” I responded immediately, “they would be bored.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “My house isn’t fun. My dad wouldn’t let us do anything.”
“Well, you could make it a game, where you and your friends can’t let your dad catch you.”
I smiled politely at her attempt to convince me that my friends could have fun with me, but I didn’t believe her one bit. To say that my dad wouldn’t let my sisters and I leave the block is an understatement; he rarely gave us permission to leave the house. Growing up extremely sheltered left me unsure of myself, and distraught with the memories of long summers when my cousins would visit us and our destitute town, complaining that there was nothing to do but eat, I was left with the impression that I too was a bore. Reminiscing on those elementary school days when we met with Mrs. Shannon, my friend and I would joke that the support group assembled like Avengers to save our classmate wasn’t only for her but for all four of us: for the student who was too intimidated to engage and make friends; for the child who came from a divorced household; for the daughter whose father was incarcerated; and for a little girl who thought too little of herself. I can’t remember a time after 4th grade when I wasn’t comparing myself to others, allowing my appearance, skills, and grades to measure my value. I can relate to the lyric found in Jessie Reyez’s “Ankles”: “I’d kill for a mute button in my head,” because I was constantly bullying myself with mean insults. It’s no surprise that by fifteen I felt tired as if I had already lived many decades and was just ready for whatever came afterwards. When I’d talk to my dad about my feelings he would try to relate, explaining that growing up he was shy, insecure and held back by fear and negativity and he promised that if I just prayed and read the bible a little more I would be okay. Well, I prayed. And prayed and prayed, but it didn’t change anything. I would feel guilty about how down I was, too, about how bad I felt about myself because I truly had nothing to complain about. I had both parents at home, a mom and dad who, despite being strict and overprotective, gave my sisters and I nothing but love; I didn’t know the grief of losing someone I loved; I wasn’t dealing with any terminal illness, so why did I feel so bad? I couldn’t find a word for it until I was much older.
Although I had heard of depression I never fully knew how to explain it which meant, by Albert Einstein’s logic, that if I couldn’t give a simple explanation I didn’t understand it well enough (I don’t mean to use the terms anxiety and depression interchangeably; in my experience they go hand in hand). I also didn’t think I could use the word depression to describe my experience, because no matter how bad I was feeling about myself I still managed to get out of bed every day to finish college, maintain a job, and begin a new relationship. I knew I spoke negatively to myself but I didn’t understand how much that was impacting my mental health, my overall mood. The best description of depression I have found—and that I related to immensely—is in Neal Brennan’s comedy special 3 Mics:
Depression to me has always felt like a virus that attacks your brain with negative thoughts. The medication staved off some of the thoughts, but a lot of them would still break through and would leave a void in their wake. Like, to say I have low self-esteem is not true. I have no self-esteem. I don’t have the architecture for good feelings.
Put simply, Neal explains, depression is never life-threatening but it is life-dampening. While depression is a chemical imbalance, I think there are reasons behind the way you feel. It is true that our brains are all wired differently: Some people look up and notice the rainbow while others look down, shaking the raindrops off their coats; however, I found it interesting that in his special Neal reveals he is the youngest of ten children, his father was a violent alcoholic who terrorized his brothers and was a narcissist, forcing Neal and his siblings “to not draw attention to themselves until their feelings atrophied to the point of becoming incapable of having them.” He asks his dad if he loved him and his dad tells him no, he never loved him. I think some part of Neal’s depression could’ve come from his father’s emotional neglect and the frightening environment he was raised in. There are multiple factors that led to my low self-esteem and mood such as being extremely shy and introverted, my parents sheltering me and living in an impoverished community with little resources to nurture my interests and broaden my experiences. Today those feelings of self-loathing don’t carry the same weight they once did. Becoming a mother had a huge influence on that. I still struggle with doubt and negative thoughts and when I have those moments the only thing I can do is turn my attention elsewhere, burying myself in the things I love that make me feel good and accomplished. I’ve also learned through listening to more music and hearing comedians on podcasts that my feelings are normal and I am not the only one who has dark thoughts sometimes because we’re only human. You just have to work constantly to push past the negativity, the doubt, and the fears to do what makes you feel happy and fulfilled.
I believe that your mind is a house and you must meticulously scrub it clean of negative thoughts, tossing out unproven beliefs of your worth that only invite doubt, sterilizing the nonsense people say to you and whose words you breathed life into and allowed to hang around like a friend. My days looked like a graveyard as I disappeared into a mere ghost of myself, going through the motions of what I needed to do before retreating to my bedroom. Today I lean on gratitude for the wonderful things I have in my life and I focus my energy on being grateful knowing that if I let myself get in my head it’ll only debilitate me. I read this wonderful book by one of my favorite writers Neil Gaiman called The Graveyard Book about a boy named Nobody Owens, a living boy, who grows up in a graveyard with otherworldly beings after his family is murdered and it provides a wonderful metaphor for people who aren’t living their life. There’s a passage where Nobody’s guardian Silas prepares him for his departure from the graveyard to the real world, warning him that the man who killed his family still intends to kill him; however, Nobody brushes off the peril of death, unconcerned with the possibility of it because all his friends from the graveyard are dead. Silas offers a caveat: “Yes. They are. And they are, for the most part, done with the world. You are not. You’re alive, Bod. That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything. If you change the world, the world will change. Potential. Once you’re dead, it’s gone (Gaiman, 166).” While you’re alive you have the opportunity to do whatever you want, and the possibility that being alive gives you matters. I’ve learned I can change the way I think by actively working to stop overthinking every situation and conversation, and slowing down so I’m not always worrying. I have a great partner who’s naturally positive and uplifts me, helping me change the narrative of my own thoughts. To ward off pessimism I use writing to improve my mental health and creating this blog and writing fiction has helped me tremendously with getting that done. I’ve found that creativity brings a flush of excitement to my cheeks, and makes my heart palpitate, making me feel alive. Find what you love to do. The days won’t seem quite so long when you’re using your potential.
Gaiman, Neil. The Graveyard Book. William Morrow, 2008.
Jessie Reyez. “Ankles.” Before Love Came to Kill Us, FMLY/ Island Records, 2020.
Jhené Aiko. “Born Tired.” Chilombo, 2 Fish, LLC/ Artclub INTL/ Def Jam Recordings, 2020.
Neil Brennan: 3 Mics. Directed by Neil Brennan, Netflix, 2017.